


we were born with fire and gold in our eyes

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, Getting Together, M/M, Princes & Princesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has always had the heavy weight of illustrious expectations on his shoulders, but it's never been this crushing before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were born with fire and gold in our eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icywind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind/gifts).



> Title is from Bea Miller's _Fire N Gold_.
> 
> A gift fic for Heidi, who's good day turned into a bad one unexpectedly. Here's hoping it improves drastically soon!

Clint never wanted to be a prince. Although, he supposes, only people not born into royalty really _want_ the position. Growing up with the title, expected from birth to take on some great responsibility for a kingdom and its people, it’s difficult not to come to resent it more often than not.

 

Clint thought he was at least adequately resigned to his fate as the king’s second son, well on his path to becoming the leader of their military and unlikely to marry unless a political advantage was to be gained. But he was never meant to be named the heir, he was not groomed to rule a nation, and he was certainly never prepared to have his brother’s fiancée suddenly become his own.

 

And so he’s locked himself away in his rooms—though he rarely even steps into any of them besides his bed chamber; honestly, what is he meant to do with a separate sitting room and a private dining room?—with his head squished between his knees, which are certainly not shaking, thank you very much.

 

The day had started out so well, with a leisurely ride through the surrounding forests with Phil (Sir Phillip, the head of Clint’s personal guard but much more like a best friend than a knight in his father's employ) until they reached the archery course he’d assembled deep in the woods many years ago. Phil had even nicked a basket of rolls and cheeses from the kitchen so they could stay out as long as they pleased, seeing as the cooks had no problem smacking the back of Clint's greedy hands with wooden spoons whenever he dared to venture into their domain. And maybe there had been some promising looks exchanged as they rode alongside each other, loaded with the weight of _what if,_ but it was all for naught now.

 

Because when they returned to the castle, making it through the gates just as the sun was setting, the news was dropped on Clint with his father’s usual lack of tact: his brother had disappeared. Foul play wasn’t suspected at least, as Barney and their father had been butting heads more than ever as his impending nuptials approached and with them, his coronation.

 

And while it was possible Barney might reappear once his temper cooled, their father seemed to be done of it, more than ready to name his second son, the ever-obedient one, his heir.

 

Clint has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat. He’d expected someone—well, Phil at least—to barge in and force him up long ago, but he has yet to be disturbed since he exited his father’s study with a stiffly measured pace and made straight for his room.

 

The echoes of his harsh breathes in his empty cavern of a room aren’t helping him to calm down.

 

A strong wind buffets the window shutters violently, and Clint thinks absently that there had been no signs of an approaching storm when they’d been out earlier, but obviously nature is as fickle as his life when it comes to abrupt changes with no warning given. He’s supposed to be marrying a young woman he’s barely exchanged five words with by the end of the week, after all, and ascending a throne he was never meant to sit on shortly following said wedding.

 

Except that the wind doesn’t die down, and the shutters rattle against the stones surrounding them, and then they suddenly whip open, one torn wide so violently that it rips away from the hinges and clatters to the floor by his wardrobe.

 

Shocked out of his fugue, Clint climbs hesitantly to his feet, cautiously edging around the footboard to glance outside. And it’s possible his panic has induced some kind of hallucinations—is that even possible, or do hallucinations only accompany an intense fever?—because there is a dragon lurking outside his window, hovering there on leathery wings splayed wide. The light of the full moon reflects off the red scales of the dragon's hide as they stare each other down.

 

 _Well, this looks bad_ , Clint has time to think before the dragon digs the talons of its front legs right into the stone masonry and rips a hole right in the side of his room. Clint tries to stumble back—his knees still too weak to manage to run like he sensibly should—but the dragon snatches him up, and the next thing Clint knows, he’s dangling from its claws as it flies away from the castle.

 

He’s never been up this high before, and while he usually isn’t one to be afraid of heights, he doubts that anyone would fault him for his reaction given the extenuating circumstances—that is to say, Clint faints.

 

\---

 

Clint comes to in a cave, which he assumes is only to be expected when one is abducted by a dragon. He glances around hazily, looking for the purported horde of gold or other shiny trinkets, a nest of tree limbs or whatever it is dragons sleep upon, or even the dragon itself, but it’s just a regular cave, with a small fire of brush and twigs burning brightly a few feet away.

 

Clint is confused, but at least the fire is warm.

 

The sound of footsteps bounce off the cave walls faintly, slowly headed his way, and Clint scoots back along the chilled floor so that his back is at least to a wall, though he has no weapon on him and there is nothing within sight with which to improvise.

 

And then Clint’s already extremely unlikely day takes a turn for the even stranger when Phil is the one who steps out of the shadows into the soft glow of the fire’s light, sans his usual armor and dressed as plainly as any farmhand in the villages surrounding the castle.

 

“Phil?” Clint asks, mostly just to see if he responds, that Clint’s not still hallucinating or something.

 

The self-deprecating smile is the same as his Phil, at least. “You might recall that there was some controversy surrounding my application for a position amongst the King’s Guard,” Phil says after a moment.

 

Clint can only shrug, caught off guard by what seems a rather random topic of conversation to him. “Obviously. Your family isn’t exactly well-known or established, but you’ve more than proved your worthiness for the placement in the years since.”

 

“Yes, well, about that.” Phil shuffles his feet awkwardly, and Clint notes that he’s never really seen Phil _nervous_ before. It’s an endearing look on him, but right now he’d much rather have the ever-confident knight with him. “I may have lied about that. My family, that is.”

 

“Okay?”

 

Phil reaches into the collar of his loose tunic and pulls out the pendant he always wears against his chest. The chain is an understated silver, but the gem is a startling blue that almost seems to glow at times. Clint’s caught sight of it plenty in the year since Phil joined his guard, but Phil’s always shrugged away any questions posed about it.

 

Phil slips the chain over his head and looks down at the pendant cradled in his hand before holding it out to Clint, who can only scrunch up his brow as he puts a hand out to take it. As soon as the last of the chain slips away from Phil’s fingers, his entire figure begins to shift, blurring at the edges. A moment later, Phil is gone and in his place is the dragon that stole him from his room.

 

“Oh,” Clint breaths out after a shocked minute of gaping and staring wide-eyed.

 

“Yes, well,” the dragon says—the _dragon_ is _speaking_ —and it’s Phil’s voice, albeit a bit deeper and much louder. “Humans tend to break out the pitchforks when you lead with the whole dragon bit.”

 

Clint is probably firmly in shock at this point, because all he says in response is, “Understandably.”

 

“Given the time constraints, this seemed the best way to extract you from the mess the king was making of things.” 

 

“Kidnapping me was the best option?” Clint asks incredulously, laughing despite himself.

 

The dragon's--Phil's--shoulders roll back like he's trying to shrug. “It’s only kidnapping if you don’t come with me willingly.”

 

“What, you won’t just let me go back?” Clint's eyes narrowly suspiciously because, dragon or not, he's having a very hard time imagining that Phil, the honorable knight who's stayed by his side so diligently, would ever force him to do something against his wishes, even if it's something that's meant to protect Clint.

 

“No.” Phil's reply is sharp, and his usual glare is much more intimidating when it's shaping a dragon's chiseled features, what with the gold glint of his eyes and the massive jaw of razor-like teeth clenched tight.

 

“Even if that’s what I want?” Clint demands stubbornly.

 

“It’s not,” Phil insists with a shake of his head, the muscles of his long neck rippling smoothly with the movement.

 

Clint scoffs and clutches the pendant in a tight fist. “How would you know?”

 

Phil doesn’t answer him with words. Instead he shifts forward, his massive, scaly head lowering until he’s eye-level with Clint, and he looks pointedly down at the pendant. Clint raises his arms to slip the chain over Phil’s snout, the transformation taking over once the metal makes contact. In the span of a blink, it’s his Phil back in front of him, and it’s his Phil that steps up to him and cups Clint’s cheeks tenderly with his flesh hands, pulling their mouths together in a chaste but firm kiss.

 

It takes actual effort for Clint to open his eyes again—and when did they close, anyway?—after they part, though Phil’s hands continue to cradle his face and keep him close. Clint huffs out a weak laugh, the smile spreading across his face wide and relieved. “You make a fair point,” he admits, bringing his hands up to rest at Phil’s waist.

 

Phil grins back at him, and Clint’s honestly surprised that in all the time he’s spent staring at Phil, pining for him, studying his every facial expression, he’s never noticed the hint of sharp fangs just visible when he smiles.


End file.
